In March of 1963, my father came home and stood an orange tank of helium in the garage and told me to run in and get my mother's iron. My father was a welding engineer, a serious man who wore khakis to work. His projects were practical: a clutch holder for his truck, our patio, inventions at work. With the iron, he tried to melt the edges of two large sheets of clear plastic together; white smoke snaked around his hand as the hot appliance ate bites from the material. He handed it back to me, its bottom scabbed with black layers of burned plastic. I sneaked it back into the house. When I returned, he and my brother were taping the plastic with duct tape, making a seven-foot square. When that was accomplished, he ran a hose into a corner and began filling the transparent shape, which lifted to the ceiling of the garage like a plastic pillow. He spray-painted a blue window on the bottom. My brother filled a red balloon with helium and taped it to the top. My father had a look on his face. It was thrilling to think he was kidding, having fun--he'd ruined my mother's iron!

My brother and I walked the flying saucer across Emery Street to the park. It was like pulling a raft through calm water. When my father waved, we let it go and ran home. The silver object rose slowly, awkwardly. My father had already called two neighbors and was on the phone to another, Joe Gallegos. "Joe," I heard him say, in an invitation I still use, "I think we've got a problem."